


The Real Vondergeists

by sarasland30



Category: Monster High
Genre: Death, Gen, Making Sense of Canon, Murder, alchohol abuse, losing a job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 17:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15442131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarasland30/pseuds/sarasland30
Summary: A story I published on Quotev but decided would probably do better on AO3.





	The Real Vondergeists

Somewhere in New Salem, Jersey quite some time ago lived a family that consisted of a woman, a man, and their daughter called the Vondergeists, and they almost deserved it. After all, they were all very much dead.

Spectra floated down the halls of Monster High, her legs dragging so infinitesimally on the brightly checkered floors. Somewhere in her subconscious, she was aware of Heath shooting her down with flirty gestures, saying something about an issue of the Ghostly Gossip that she had written that afternoon; but the ghost carried on with not much more than a nod of acknowledgement, carrying her Clawculus books firmly in her grasp.

One day, however, the Vondergeists disappeared off the face of New Salem's Normie society. They would never be found again. Or, at least not alive. Soon enough, their memory had been left behind, and then all that was left was forever-teenager Spectra Vondergeist.

So.

"Spectra!" called familiar Cleo de Nile, dynastic diva of the ancient Egyptian clan. Her regal face mirrored nothing but pure power, and her wrapped hips swayed like gentle Nile reeds with the motion of her coming. Her ruby lips twitched with pleasure. "I was just going to tell you how royally epic your latest story was!" Spectra had never heard Cleo praise an article of hers. Her mood had forever been soured towards them since she gossiped about the false rumors regarding her relationship with Deuce. Her grasp tightened.

"Yes!" agreed Draculaura, and Spectra turned her white façade to the pink vampire that had sat next to Cleo. Draculaura showed off her dainty little fangs, grinning with girly pride. "Totes fabulous! You really captured what the people of MH have been thinking."

"Thank you, ghouls," Spectra answered quietly. For a moment, she could ignore what had happened in the libury, just those few minutes ago. She could bask in the cold yellow light of knowing how much these ghouls would really appreciate her writing; how she wouldn't [couldn't] end up like her mother anymore. Spectra's fingers twitched, cold and clear. Yes. She could remember it now. She had followed down Cleo's little crony Ghoulia in hopes that she could get some dirt on the ever pure zombie. Soon, Ghoulia had turned to where she had hidden, tapping her claws on a seat next to her. She held a tightly wrapped newspaper, and the ghost was certain of what the bundle held. 

 

**THE REAL VONDERGEISTS : 1903**

 

"Uhhh!" reassured Ghoulia, taking up suddenly sobbing Vondergeist into her decaying arms. _Your secret is safe with me._

And it was. It had always been. She always knew. Spectra recalled to mind the torn edges of paper, the smudged black ink. She couldn't believe it had been there. Wouldn't. For everyone to see? And then she looked down, her hands trembling with such force that she had never seen until now. The past was a horrible master, and secrets were their cruel lessons. With no sort of command of her own, her eyes began to shine. It had been a long time since salt had filled her clear violet eyes. Ectoplasmic tears. Feeling weightless, Spectra felt herself crumple down onto her knees, her translucent hands imposing nothing to hide her reddened face. It all came rushing. _We could have done something to stop him! He was so horrible, Ghoulia!_

Her family consisted of a woman, a man, and their young daughter. The woman wrote stories for The New Salem Post. The man worked in a high class job, working straight hours, and never having much time. Soon enough he lost his money, was fired, set off with a wing and a prayer, and left alone. He drank, and drank. And then the woman and their young daughter couldn't stop it all from coming down. Words. Sometimes it stung in a different way. One day, the woman decided to stand up. She wrote a story. All of it, everything. The man, outraged, came to their room at night with a sledgehammer. It didn't take much time. Spectra brought the numb sensation of pain, recalling how it felt when the blow came in and smashed her skull in and flat. Blood poured. For good measure, the man took a razor and slit his own throat. And they almost deserved it.

After all, they were very much dead.


End file.
